[ CLOSED ] through open passageways

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: March
Where: Cadens; Horizon
What: Catch-all for things
Warnings: Adding as we go



(( placing starters in the comments below. find me at discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))

Comments

[righteously]

( For as cool as they've been, Dean still only knows a snapshot of Geralt's life. He'll pick up on the context later, get a better idea for the dynamic as he gets the opportunity to observe it. In the meantime, all he's building his impression by right now is a little weird Horizon delineation and a Christmas party.

He must be starting to get some idea of the guy, though, because he can clearly read that entire thought from start to finish written in Geralt's flat ass stare. He holds up an absent hand - mea culpa - and follows it up with a slow (but good-natured) shake of the head. )

Nothing, it's nothing. It's just- ( How in the hell does he phrase this when he barely knows what he wants to say? Give him a beat or two to formulate. Maybe start with a disclaimer: ) Look, you're about as hard to read as a Braille hieroglyphic half the time, what do I know? Just sounded a little weird, is all. You guys seem close, but it sounds like he doesn't lute it up in your mountain castle. Is that like a thing or something?

[gynvael]

[ His brows draw together. Hm. Admittedly, not what he expected Dean to say. He doesn't grasp, entirely, what Dean means to ask—they are close. Jaskier is his oldest friend. He isn't sure what that has to do with Jaskier's presence in his domain. ]

Few set foot in Kaer Morhen back home. We aren't open to outsiders. [ Probably not the explanation Dean is searching for, but it's the one Geralt gives: Jaskier is the only person who knows enough about Kaer Morhen that he might feel he were intruding. For everyone else, they've merely stumbled upon an old crumbling fortress of no significance. ] And Jaskier is plenty in my space out here. I can only be drooled upon so many times in my sleep.

[ The remark is dry, but without any real irritation—a thing he's used to. Here is not the first time he's shared a bed with Jaskier. Sometimes a backwater village has exactly one bed available for the night. You make do. Cadens has been no different, given they came here with lint in their pockets and a stolen ring to their name. Two beds has been all they've managed between the three—then four—of them. Half the time, he sleeps on the floor of their rented home. The other half he's nursing a bruise or some other injury, so he shoves Jaskier over to take a portion of the mattress. Not ideal, but it suffices. ]

[righteously]

( Understanding begins to filter in finally; we aren't open to outsiders. Like a monk thing, he guesses? He opens his mouth — whether it's to clarify or comment quickly gets lost as his mind processes tha last bit.

It hit his brain first as a throw-away joke, but now the skull meat electricity's sparking a little and noticing Gerealt's got that irritated-but-not, resigned because it's true hashtag first(?) world problems look on his face. )

Wait, you guys still share a bed?

( The why is unspoken — he's not sure how much Jaskier makes wandering around annoying strangers with ballads, but surely Geralt — mister you get paid to hunt, dumbass — makes enough money to get his own damn bed right? They been here a while. Early days he'd get, him and Sam have had their fair share of splitting a queen when they money got gone. Seems weird that it's a long term choice.

For there is no other immediately logical explanation, you see. )

[gynvael]

[ He levels a look at Dean, with a vague gesture that says, And? His reply is a flat, ] I'm in it when it suits.

[ Why this needs to be a question, he isn't certain. The reasons are several in reality—absolutely nothing Geralt chooses to do has a single uncomplicated answer—but it isn't hard to presume it a matter of convenience from the outside. Which it is, in part. Sleeping comforts don't register to him as worth putting down the coin for. He's rarely home in the first place—spends most of his nights in the desert. Ciri is the same, so they piled into that cramped room at the start and never left. In exchange, they've two steady horses and a small handful of fine-crafted weapons. Geralt is particular about his sword; he will not pick up any common blade off a smith's table. Both his and Ciri's were forged to specifications; he's recently replaced his own blade with the meteorite steel he couldn't afford early in. He'll take a good sword and horse over a bed any day.

But there's also how Jaskier's sleep has been restless ever since the memories poured in. Geralt keeps him company in the night these days, when he might normally have tossed a pillow on the ground and slept there instead. It seems to help, even if Jaskier has a habit of clinging harder than a fucking ocean squid. That is a personal matter, however. One he is not interested in divulging. When it suits sums it up well enough. ] 

[righteously]

( That earns a distinctly more puzzled look than his earlier speculative, huh. Cultural differences, hombre (or toxic masculinity differences). There's an unspoken, arbitrary limit on reasoning and duration for dudes sharing a bed with another dude.

Evidently that's not something that holds true in Geralt-world. )

Wellp.

( He declares decisively. )

That all sounds bass ackwards, but as long as it works for you two weirdos.

( Punctuated with another drink. It's none of his business, and he doesn't have the right mustache situation going on to be playing Dr. Phil over here. )

I stabbed Cas square in the chest first thing when I met him, I'm not exactly one to talk about normal interpersonal relationship dynamics. You do you, booboo.

[gynvael]

[ The bemusement goes both ways, though some understanding settles over him the longer Dean picks at the topic. When he says dynamics, as if he's learned something new worth commenting on about Geralt's relationship with Jaskier.

It's a strange aspect to give someone pause. Perhaps if this were between royals or amongst some villagers with their own rules and unspoken norms—but he's none of these things. Witchers are outcast for so many reasons that who he chooses to bring to his bed is the furthest item down the list. No one's ever looked twice at him over it. They're too busy staring at his hair, his eyes, his sword. Occasionally the severed monster head he takes upstairs with him.

After a second, he just raises an eyebrow. Amusement lurks around the edges. ] Should I be concerned you equate sharing a bed with attempting a murder?

[ These are two incredibly different choices, Dean. ]

[righteously]

Probably.

( He concedes lightly, with Zero worry in his voice. Such is the nature of Winchester — never afraid to admit his flaws. They are in abundance, and easy to joke about.

He still hasn't figured out that sharing a bed means Sharing a Bed. That'll be a revelation for some time later.

He grunts, pushing himself back away from the table. )

On that note, I think I'm gonna go scrub off the near-death experience.

( Welcome to Officially On A Touch Basis; a hand claps down on Geralt's shoulder, and he gives it a nice, testosterone-fueled squeeze and shake, the customary goodbye. )

If you're feelin' froggy later, swing by the bar. If my lung hasn't fallen out of my chest, I'll drink you under the table and teach you how to lose at pool.